


The Recipe

by InMyEyes2014



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 17:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMyEyes2014/pseuds/InMyEyes2014
Summary: Chefs Emma Swan and Killian Jones both have their reasons to compete in the Culinary Championships for a large cash prize. But when they are paired as a team, they must learn to work together or it could all go up in flames. Part of the Captain Swan Little Bang 2018!





	The Recipe

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my contribution to the @captainswanbigbang ‘s little bang! Thank you so much to all the mods for organizing it and for all your hard work. I was able to combine two of my greatest loves in this story - Captain Swan and culinary competitions. I could not have done it without the incredible feedback of my beta reader, aloha-4-ever, who offered suggestions, kept me on track, and helped me change my idea when the first one turned the wrong direction. And of course this story is all the better with the incredible artistic work of @cocohook38 who made the incredible illustration of Emma and Killian as chefs. She took my idea of them in this story and made it reality.

 

There was always something magical about cooking to Emma Swan. From the first time she had thrown ingredients into a pan and watched them meld into something wonderful and tasty, she had been mesmerized by the transformation that to her was pure magic. So when she aged out of the foster care system at 18, she found herself working long shifts at a diner and taking a cooking classes at a local community college.

 

Yet after a long day where she crafted creamy risotto that made the Italian master chefs cry at its beauty, Emma found that she was a fan of the simpler things in life. That particular night she was standing over a single frying pan with a golden brown sandwich sizzling to that perfect melted state where the butter, cheese, and bread would meld into a sinfully good grilled cheese sandwich.

 

“You won’t win the Culinary Championships with a sandwich,” her roommate Ruby announced, dropping her bag on the farm table they had restored during a snowy weekend when the entire city had shut down. “What? No objections that competition cooking isn’t your style?”

 

Emma lifted the corner of the sandwich to inspect her work. “I think we’ve already had that argument. I did my time, earned the accolades. Why would the Championships want to invite me back?”

 

Running a hand blindly through her dark hair, Ruby sighed. “Why wouldn’t they? You’re unbeatable. You won every freaking competition.”

 

Emma kept her eyes on her sandwich, pressing the slotted spatula down on it and then letting the bread rise back. “If I’m so unbeatable, then what’s the point? Nobody’s going to watch me win again. And if I lose, then I lose reputation and credibility.” Since her string of wins, Emma had found herself in the role of executive chef at one of New York’s small but popular restaurants.  

 

Always with a flair for the dramatic, Ruby held her phone out to her friend and shook it from side to side. “Fine, I’ll read the good part anyway. They are giving you a guaranteed bonus and appearance fee.” For Ruby, food was about money. She was the granddaughter of a restaurant owner and now worked in New York with a variety of chefs to help them start their own establishments. But to Emma, she was a friend and roommate, plus part time coach and assistant if it meant she got to hang around television types.

 

Peeking at the underside of her sandwich again and deeming it good, she flipped it easily and finally gave her dark haired roommate some attention. “So I just show up and cook?”

 

“That’s the idea,” Ruby said, breaking off a piece of the cheese that Emma had sliced for the sandwiches she was making. “Everyone will be paired up with another chef. You’re not in it alone. Then when there is only one pair standing, they both get a cash prize and you compete against your partner for a chance to go against other chefs from around the country. How savage is that? Turning on your own partner. The national winner gets $500,000.” Ruby shoved the phone down into the tiny little bag she was carrying and crossed her arms. “Imagine it. No don’t imagine it. Plan on it. Think about what you can do with that money.”

 

With her green eyes back on the sandwich, Emma sighed. “You’re thinking Ingrid’s.”

 

“Yeah,” Ruby said with an emphatic nod of her head. “So what do you say? Put on those chef whites and compete?”

 

Emma slid the sandwich on the plate and began to prepare a second one, knowing her roommate was hungry too. “I’ll think about it.” She concentrated on the satisfying sizzle of the pan for a moment.

 

“That’s Emma-code for I’ll think of reasons not to do it.” Ruby looked sourly at her friend. “You’ve done these before. Why not now?”

 

“I told you that I would think about it. I will. I need to look at schedules, expectations, requirements, and all of those little details.” She flipped the sandwich. “Such as, who would I partner with anyway? You?”

 

Ruby scoffed. “I’m no chef. I help pain in the butt chefs like you start their own restaurants. But you touch the food. I draw the line at that. Anyway, I already talked to the scout slash production assistant. They said not everyone entering has a partner already. There are probably half a dozen on the show who would kill to work with you.”

 

It was a running joke between the roommates that Ruby was a front of the house person. She could sell steak to a vegetarian, but she couldn’t grill one to save her life. “I could just get a loan to fix the restaurant up. Seems a little more responsible.”

 

“What if you win? Your former foster mother left you a beautiful house on the coast of Maine. It’s huge. Imagine the restaurant we could turn it into! What else are you going to do with it?”

 

“The kitchen is nonexistent,” Emma reminded her, adding a bit more of the herbed butter to the pan. “There was a stove with only one working eye. The refrigerator was blowing hot air. And did you notice there were no counters? There’s not a health inspector drunk enough to give me a permit.”

 

“So,” Ruby said as she snagged the now completed sandwich and saluted her friend with it, “if you win the whole thing, you get $500,000. That’s more than enough to get the kitchen outfitted and the renovations complete.” Closing her eyes as she bit, Ruby smiled around the melted butter and cheese sandwich. “I take back what I said. Make these for the judges. It would win the entire thing.”

  


***AAA***

Two years ago the red numbers of the countdown clock glared mercilessly at Chef Killian Jones as he felt the sweat beading on his brow. The bitter stench of burned garlic wafted up from the singed pan, along with the realization that he had no time to recreate the dish for the judges. The other competitors were calmly plating mounds of food while his plates remained empty.

There were only seconds left on the clock when he balled up the logo-decorated apron and threw it over the pile of dirty pans and mixing bowls. “I quit,” he announced, ignoring the camera that followed him as he pushed through the swinging doors and past the producer, Mr. Gold, who was whisper-shouting into his headset at some unknown production assistant.

A few days later a certified letter and legal paperwork arrived at his apartment in Maine stating he was being sued for breach of contract. Known as a rebel and a fighter, Killian didn’t fight this time and eventually paid the full amount due with the only asset he had left – his beloved sailboat.

Waking up that morning in Storybrooke, Maine, he had felt that same gut-wrenching dread as he had two years before when the clock ticked down his doom in the industry. Granny’s wasn’t exactly the best of career steps, but none of the better restaurants even took his reservations after the show aired. He was grateful for the opportunity to work, even at a themed diner that served the same 40 or so customers over and over again.

“What did you do to that chicken pot pie Leroy ordered?” Granny asked, holding the swinging door between dining room and kitchen open with her hip. She was staring at Killian with her eyes peering accusingly over a pair of wire rim glasses.

 

“I froze some of the fresh peas and ground them fine,” he explained, rubbing his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “Dusted the dough with that and some sea salt to add a bit of bite to the dish.”

 

“He’s practically licking the plate, and asked for another one to go. See if you can make that old grump smile for the second time in one night, will you?”

 

“Aye,” he said with a grin as he turned back to the prep table and began to gather his ingredients. “I do love a challenge, particularly when it is 10 minutes until closing and the kitchen should have been shut down already.”

 

“He’s a paying customer,” she reminded him, letting the door bounce as she turned back to the dining room. “And you know what I always say, right?”

 

“A customer’s money is always good money,” he chanted wearily. “Tell him it will take a bit of time, but I’ll have it piping hot for him before he finishes his next pint.”

 

Killian sliced through the carrots with precision and grace, the blade of his knife catching the artificial light of the overheads. He was not a man who liked mediocrity or disorder, as a few of the line cooks had learned when their stations had not been as uniform as they should have been.

 

Since most of the staff was already gone for the evening, Killian worked in silence for as long as he could. There was something therapeutic in the coolness of the dough under his fingers and the scent of the vegetables, chicken, and béchamel simmering on the stove, as he worked the dough into the small round pan. He was just sliding it into the already warm oven when he heard the familiar clearing of a voice in the rectangular window between kitchen and dining.

 

“What can I do for you, mate?” Killian asked, taking a cloth to the buildup of flour on the steel table. “Marian craving another slice of Granny’s chocolate cake?”

 

Robin folded his arms on the ledge of the window and laughed. Known for his renovation techniques and business skills, he ran one of the best restoration companies on the coast. He also handled much of Killian’s business affairs since the chef had little interest in that himself. “Not yet. We don’t...well, it’s far too soon for that particular craving symptom. My news is for you, mate. I just heard from that talent scout woman. She wants you to come in for an interview about that cooking competition show. Bloody brilliant opportunity I’d say.”

 

“Show?” Killian asked, not remembering what his friend was talking about now. They had more than a few late night discussions with and without a few libations to keep tongues wagging. “I hope you would know better than to sign me up for some ruddy competition. Those days are over.”

 

Robin offered a quick reminder. “You’d get a daily fee to be there, a guaranteed $100,000 in cash and prizes for the finals to share with your partner, and of course the purse is $500,000 for the national win. More than enough to get you out of this place and running one of your own.”

 

“Quiet, mate, I don’t think Granny heard you plotting my escape.” Like all chefs he wanted his own menu, his own rules, but you didn’t tell your boss that while you were still trying to bring in a paycheck. “And besides. She barely lets us take a sick day without a two week notice. You think she’ll go for me disappearing to compete in a bloody reality show?”

 

“She will if you promise to mention the diner’s name and address enough,” Granny interrupted, her pursed lips indicating she had heard the conversation. While she had to be joking, her stern expression didn’t indicate the mirth behind the suggestion. When he froze in place at being caught discussing such an idea, she softened and almost smiled. “Killian, I’m not blind. You’re a fine chef and this place is beneath you. Go and spread your wings. If it works, you’ll probably put me out of business with whatever crazy scheme you’ve got next. If you fail, well there’s always a spot for you here.” Sighing when he didn’t jump at the opportunity, she turned toward the door and paused again. “I could just fire you and then you’d have to go, or not make rent.”

 

“Gold won’t want me on the show once he realizes I’m the one who left without warning,” Killian protested, returning to the duty of cleaning the counters. “It was not a pretty sight. I just gave up.”

 

“A mistake you won’t be making again,” Robin noted. “Baby steps, Killian. And he seems willing. Now you just have to prove him wrong about you.”

 

Yanking on the faucet’s hose to spray down one of the leftover pans, he grimaced. It wasn’t obvious where the scowl was directed, but part of it had to be the idea of competing again. “I am fine with the status quo. I don’t need this hassle.”

 

“Too bad,” Robin said, “As your agent and business partner, I already told them yes.”

 

“I’ll fire you,” Killian called over his shoulder. “Don’t think I won’t.”

 

“You’d have to pay me to make that threat work, mate. I am volunteering, and you’re doing the show.”

 

***AAA***

 

Emma was the last of the competing chefs to arrive, but as the call sheet dictated, she climbed out of the cab in party attire for an event to meet the rest of the cooks. She was hustled through a long hallway, stopping just before the room where the welcome banquet would be held.

 

The girlfriend of the producer, Belle French, gave her an overview of the competition as she walked on impossibly high heels past the door leading into the party.

 

“So about the contract,” Emma began, adjusting the strap of her red dress. “I noticed that it said, ‘chef duos in duels.’ I’m not really…”

 

The petite brunette nodded her head, checking the clipboard she had cradled in her arms. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just to stir up drama. Anyway, we have the perfect match for you.”

 

Bobbing her head affirmatively, Emma squared her shoulders. “I’ve been more of a solo chef as of late. I don’t even have a sous chef at the moment. It’s just a little…”

 

“We…I mean, our producer, Gold, took care of that,” the woman answered, brushing back her thick hair. “He works somewhere here in Maine. On the coast I think? Isn’t that where you’re thinking about opening a place?”

 

“It’s not that small of a state,” Emma remarked easily. “So do I get to meet him prior to cooking with him? I mean no offense, but I’ve seen some of the chefs on these shows. Gold doesn’t always go for quality. That Walsh you gave me last time carved the protein like he was peeling a banana. Even a monkey can break down a chicken, Belle.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Belle said breezily, checking her list again. “Killian’s competed before so he’s not completely green…it’s just that…well, I’ll let you meet him.”

 

Emma’s gut was telling her to ask why he didn’t already have a partner, especially since he was apparently fabulous. But whoever he was, he was an unknown. That led to her other question.

 

“And this Killian guy didn’t have a friend, wife, or someone? Or does he just suck? There has to be a reason.”

 

“Aye, there’s always a reason,” a new voice said as she spun to find the source. Find it she did. Standing next to one of the tables, wearing a dark henley and what appeared to be two-day stubble, was a dark haired man who must have missed the party attire memo. He flashed a too-white smile before taking a few steps toward her and sticking out a hand. “Killian Jones.”

 

“Emma,” she offered, knowing that he must have recognized her from the way his eyes seemed knowingly confident. “So maybe you could answer that question. Why don’t you have a partner?”

 

He finally dropped his hand when she didn’t shake it. “Perhaps I’m just a bit picky when it comes to partners.”

 

“Right, and I’m supposed to believe that. I should warn you, I’m really good at spotting a lie. And right now, buddy, you’re pinging my radar.”

 

She knew she must have gotten to him a bit, as he clenched his jaw, and twin splotches of red appeared on his cheeks. “It’s good to have talents, love, but I’m not the dishonest type.”

 

***AAA***

 

Having already met his partner, Killian curled his hand around the sweating glass of rum and gave a congenial nod to the bartender hired for the party. The room was only about half full of chefs who were left to mingle just out of range of the production. His own partner was chatting with two sisters who were partnered together.

 

Another chef named Arthur was standing near an ice sculpture talking to a married couple with a plate full of fruit tarts that were among the assortment of finger foods offered. The second married team was standing off to another side, the rust-haired woman excitedly studying every single item on the table.

 

He had yet to sample much of the food other than a large prawn that seemed to scream his name. The table he was standing next to at that moment was piled high with aged sausages and thinly sliced beef and lamb carpaccio. He was studying the cut on one of them when he heard the familiar voice of his partner in this adventure.

 

“Please tell me you’re going to do more than look at that meat,” she said, lifting a few slices with the silver tongs. “I have done at least a thousand of these competitions and the vegetarian chefs are always the first to go home.”

 

He felt his jaw drop slightly at the sight of her. He had been so on the defense about her doubts earlier that he had not noticed how she looked nothing like the television version of herself either. Usually on camera in her chef whites and her hair in a severe bun, she demanded respect and attention. Now, she was a vision in a red cocktail dress and loose curls down her back. “I assure you that I know how to do more than simply slice and grill a few vegetables, love.”

 

She laughed, a joyful sound though not quite as carefree as he thought a confident woman such as Chef Swan. “Just checking. I mean if you want to be first out, that’s fine for you, but I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

 

He reached over and plucked one of the sausage bites before dropping it into his mouth. A full mouth would keep him from having to make conversation for a moment. It tasted like sawdust on his tongue as he watched her study him carefully, as if she was trying to taste the spicy concoction through him. Swallowing, he managed a small but bright smile of his own. “And you think that I will be the first one out? Are you mad, love?  I mean Chef, milady…”

 

“Chef’s fine,” she said, grimacing. “So if you’re not the vegetarian chef, then you’re...rustic Italian with strong Mediterranean flavor influences?”

 

He shook his head again, feeling a little more at ease with her. “Now, love, do I sound like an Italian chef?”

 

Her shoulders rose and fell with a silent chuckle. “I admit all the British accents are messing with my guessing game. You can’t all be cooking pub food? The judges won’t be too kind if they get half a dozen dishes of bangers and mash, or fish and chips.”

 

Lifting a dark eyebrow at her clearly judgmental statement, he waited until she bit off some of the charcuterie. She did not make a show of closing her eyes and preening dramatically at the savory food. Instead, she chewed rather methodically and let her eyes crinkle only slightly as she swallowed. “For such an educated palate, you seem to have a low opinion of English cuisine. It has won a reputation for being bland, which is accurate in only some cases, but that’s not what I make.”

 

She hummed in response. “So you’re rustic comfort food with hints of French stuffiness? Wait, that’s probably those two.” She gestured toward the two men, both of whom were newly married to their non-culinary wives, competing together.

 

“You seem to want to place a label on everyone. What if those labels don’t fit?”

 

She ran her tongue over her lip to enjoy more of the saltiness of the cured meat. Her green eyes glowed with challenge and she lifted her chin defiantly. Shifting her weight, she glanced over him as if to size him up to her standards. “I want to know what I’m up against and who I’m working with, Chef.”

 

“I suppose you’ll see my style when it comes to competition. You never know. I might be the expert in Asian fusion.”

 

She beckoned him closer with two fingers, making him breathe in the sweet scent of powder mixing with the spicy perfume over the strong wafting aromas of the food. He prayed she didn’t notice the way his eyes partially shut or how he swayed in her direction before stopping himself. “I don’t think so, Chef Jones. See that woman there?” She pointed her elbow toward a dark haired woman with her back to them. “That’s Chef Mulan. She spent seven years perfecting her skills with sushi and sashimi. I am sure you must have some skill to be on this show, but you’d never beat her in that particular way.”

 

Killian tilted his head and studied the woman in question. “Sounds as though you are a fan of the clichéd, Chef Swan. One’s heritage and ethnicity don’t always dictate their palate. I may have English blood in me and fancy a good serving of fish and chips from time to time, but I detest clotted cream and Yorkshire pudding.”

 

The blonde chef’s lips twitched into an almost smile. “I will take that under advisement,” she said, taking a step backward. “I’ll leave you to it.” She was turning around when he spoke out again.

 

“And what of you? Do you label yourself with some moniker that is supposed to describe your food? Molecular gastronomy perhaps or comfort food?”

 

She spun back that half turn to face him, those palely painted lips twitching again. “I would think you would know the answer to that by the shows and competitions I’ve done.”

 

“I’ve seen what the magic of the camera shows about your food, but what does the camera not show about you?” Still he persisted, enjoying that ember of a spark in her eyes when someone actually challenged her instead of just bowing to her requests and lavishing praise on her.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Chef Jones?” She finished, then turned away from him and walked over to join a raven haired woman standing near the producers. He appreciated the view of her, even in retreat.

 

“Perhaps I would,” he said to himself.

 

***AAA***

 

“Good job,” Ruby said in a stage whisper, resting her chin on a folded hand and keeping her eyes on the contestants still milling about. “You flustered that poor guy right before he has to cook. Need I remind you that he’s your partner? Are you trying to lose the competition, Emma?”

 

Emma threw back the rest of the wine in her glass, not tasting the sweet bitterness on her tongue. “He wasn’t flustered, Ruby. He was a cocky jerk who will probably chock.”

 

“Cocky? A chef is being cocky?” Ruby splayed her hand over her chest that was revealed by the plunging neckline of her red top. “I’m shocked. How could a chef be cocky? P.S. I know him. He works for my grandmother. Not a bad cook. You know Granny wouldn’t hire him otherwise.”

 

Emma was about to ask more, when August Booth summoned the contestants tapping a fork against his wine glass. While not a chef, August had been a food critic and writer for years. She’d butted heads with him, but found that she respected his opinion most of the time.

 

“Seriously though, he’s one of the cuter ones here. Did you see those blue eyes? Of course you did, you were standing there with him. Do you think they’re contacts?”

 

“I wasn’t looking that closely.”

 

“Right? So you ignored most of the chefs here, something you always do by the way, and ended up talking to him because…”

 

“We’re paired together and I was worried he’s not good enough. He happened to be standing there looking confused over a display of sausages and other meat. I thought...anyway, don’t read into it, Ruby. Do you blame me for doing a little research?”

 

Ruby grunted, “The only CIA you know is the Culinary Institute of America. You, Emma Swan, were checking out more than his culinary pedigree.”

 

Sticking her tongue out at her friend, Emma crossed over to the group of experienced and yet nervous chefs gathered around the judge and host. The cameras were already circling, capturing the uneasy energy of what was clearly going to be their first challenge.

 

She was right, using the remnants and leftovers of the appetizers and hors d'oeuvres they had been noshing on for the last hour, they were supposed to create two new dishes for the judges.

 

He had chosen some of the tuna, which he was currently marinating in the limes and coconut milk that he’d swiped from the bar. Having found bits of cucumber, he combined them with the tuna and shallots to make a tuna poke in a lettuce cup.

 

Emma’s knife, plastic though it might be, sliced easily through the small fruit items that she had gathered from the tables. Not stopping the motion of the knife, she gave a side glance at the table’s meager ingredients. To her left was a small bowl of a yogurt-based dip with honey on top. If she was able to scrape the honey from the dipping sauce, she could drizzle it over the sugared fruit.

 

“You’ll need something to cut the sweetness a bit,” he said. “The honey and the sugar, love? That’s enough to send the judges into a diabetic coma.”

 

Her sharp intake of breath did not deny that was what she was thinking or that he was right about the overwhelming saccharine taste that would put her on the bottom of the competition. She decided to merely acknowledge his observation with a pithy, “I’m aware.”

 

“No offense intended,” he chuckled, nudging a saucer holding four lemon slices in her direction. “You’re a bit of an open book. But for the sake of that infernal competition clock, perhaps you’d consider these. Might add just the right bite to the dish.”

 

“I thought you would going to use those with the fish. You have to use it to make your ceviche, don’t you?”

 

He laughed at her question, insisting that she take the lemons. “I visited the bar and was able to get a dash of lime juice and coconut milk. It will make my dish truly sing.” Wiping his hands on his apron, he dashed off again in the direction of the dessert table.

 

That was odd, she thought as she began the process of drizzling the honey over the mound of fruit. Hers was supposed to be the sweet component to their duo, and his the savory. What on earth could he need from the dessert table? Not wanting to spend too much time analyzing his movements or palate, she grabbed the lemon slices before he could get back and liberally doused her fruit with the tangy citrus liquid.

 

She let the berries and fruit rest while she inspected her ingredients again. She could have used the yogurt dip as the base for a parfait, but the assignment was to craft an amuse-bouche, something that was to tickle the tongue in a single bite, and a parfait would be considered too large and cumbersome.

Suddenly her partner was back, tossing a napkin in front of her that was piled with a few ginger snaps and sugar cookies decorated with lemon flavored royal icing. He winked as he obliterated the two ginger snaps he had kept for himself with the bottom of a shot glass before passing the glass to her. “For your tart,” he said as if they had already decided on her dish. “You can form it in that, and use a bit of that icing as a binder. I was only able to grab one, but you can slide it out and make…”

 

“I know how to make a tart,” she snapped, grimacing at the small glass with its crumbs still clinging to the base. “You don’t think…”

 

“The clock on the wall is telling me that overthinking is a luxury at this point. Best put your misgivings about me to the side and get to work on the crust. Otherwise those judges won’t find you so brilliant when they are eating a macerated berry in their bare hands.”

 

She hazarded a glance at the other table where Zelena was sprinkling pistachios over chicken and Regina was using hollowed out apple as a vessel for the deconstructed apple pie. That wasn’t surprising, as Regina seemed to think apples went with everything. Mary Margaret was capping off a delicious looking shrimp toast, while David was filling tall shot glasses with a soup of some kind.

 

“It’s not wise to worry about the competition. One doesn’t win by worrying about what the others are doing.” Killian spooned his fish and veggies into the center of the lettuce leaf and rolled it, folding its ends delicately and placing it in the center of a saucer. He stooped down and looked over the rim of the plate to inspect it, making miniscule movements to adjust it just so.

 

“Do you always talk like that?” she asked, sliding out her first tart and placing it on the plate as he began the process for another of his wraps.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you write fortune cookie advice for a living? I was just seeing what they were making. It’s not like the judges get palate cleansers between contestants. If they taste their dishes first and they’re horrible, that can carry over to ours.” She frowned as her next tart didn’t seem as firm as the first. The last thing she would want would be for it to crumble in a judge’s hand.

 

“Add a bit more water to make it more dough-like,” Killian suggested, plating another of his rolled wraps. When she looked doubtful, he smiled. “I promise. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

 

She assumed it would be a mushy mess, but the couple of drops of water truly helped and allowed her to easily plate the four bites. There were only 90 seconds left before the buzzer and her hands shook from the stress of it all.

 

“It looks brilliant,” he whispered, his voice closer than she expected. At some point during the plating he had moved to the same side of the crowded prep table as her, sidling up beside her to the point that his whispered encouragement was warm on her ear. She gave him a nervously tight smile in return.

 

Filming of the judging scenes were rough, as there was more direction from the producer and retakes to get reaction shots from everyone. All the sets of chefs were told repeatedly to react but not to overly extend themselves or their emotions. “I have no use for dramatics or hysterics,” Mr. Gold told them each pointedly. “Smile, nod, and say thank you, but don’t cry, scream or throw things.”

 

By the time the judges approached them, Killian was shifting his stance and kept running his fingers over the stubble on his chin. Her green eyes shot over to him and half expected him to pass out as August instructed the other two judges to try his wrap after Killian explained it. His previously controlled and confident tone was replaced with his thicker accent and shakiness that did not seem natural on him at all.

 

“Delicious,” Emily said, the first of the judges to speak. She placed a hand over her mouth as she chewed, a delicate move that made her seem more ladylike than August’s method of robust chewing. “I’m tasting hints of coconut and...” She ran her tongue around her mouth. “I’m also getting lime? Did you marinate the tuna in lime?”

 

“Aye, I thought the coconut milk and lime would provide a richer flavor.” She could tell the compliment had relaxed him more, as he let his shoulders fall and there was a soft exhale as if he had been holding his breath while they ate.

 

“You’re known as a seafood chef, aren’t you?” August asked, not bothering to even mask the disdain. Emma had always known him to be fair with her, but he was a food critic. Criticism came naturally to him, slipping from his full lips as easily as the white lies he spouted about his credentials. Emma knew about those too and was not above making him worry she might out him as a fraud if crossed. “I would imagine you wouldn’t do so well if you had attempted something with venison or pork?”

 

“Most people like to put all chefs in these neat little boxes and assume we are talentless gits when it comes to anything else. I have quite a bit of experience when it comes to seafood, but I enjoy making people savor their dishes no matter the protein or accompaniment.” Killian flashed a smile that was not exactly innocent as the camera panned around to the side to capture another angle.

 

It was Belle’s turn to offer her thoughts. Unlike Emily Gale, she was not a chef or restauranteur. But she was well read and known in culinary circles as a foodie with a most educated palate. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth and eyed the plates in front of Emma before she spoke. “I’m liking the combination of flavors, and the addition of the cilantro gave it a kick. It’s unexpectedly good with notes of freshness one wouldn’t expect from buffet leftovers. And using ginger snaps rather than raw ginger was genius.”

 

“Cut,” cried the producer who clearly thought he was a director too. In his perfectly fitted suit, Mr. Gold approached the table with his signature cane in hand. “This is just too nice. I need some darkness, shade, something. Is there something you didn’t like about this man’s dish?”

 

Belle and Emily’s eyes darted downward as they considered this request, but it was August who spoke first. “The texture is off. The filling felt like mush in my mouth.”

 

Once they had all expressed some doubt about Killian’s dish and the camera crew got the shots they wanted, it was on to Emma’s contribution. She lifted her chin up a fraction of an inch and offered tight smiles as they complimented her flavors and textures. August even winked as he commented on the smart decision to cut the sweetness with the acid of the lemon.

 

“Good job, love,” Killian said as the cameras and judges moved on to another table. He quickly corrected himself to call her chef, but she didn’t respond right away.

 

“Thanks,” she finally said, not blatantly staring at the judges deliberations over the competition. “I didn’t think of the lemon and you…”

 

“We are a team, are we not?” he asked. “If we don’t help each other out, we won’t get very far.”

  


Emma nodded as she watched the judges sampled Regina’s deconstructed apple pie next and remarked over the perfectly brown color and firm yet soft texture of the dough that she had apparently made from soft rolls. Looking down at her own small tarts, Emma frowned. How had Regina browned the practically anemic-looking rolls? Their only source of heat were the votive candles used in the decor. It would not have been enough.

  


“Either she can conjure fireballs in her hands,” Killian whispered to her, his mind clearly on the same page as his partner, “or she had a blowtorch in her purse.”

 

***AAA***

 

Someone would probably complain, Emma thought as she slid her key into the lock at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. One of the remaining contestants would see a conflict of interest with the teams being required to live for the week where Killian normally worked and she had connections with through Ruby. Officially, Granny was not part of the competition or crew, but she was a comforting sight to the chefs who knew her. Granny had even let Killian sneak into the kitchen and make snacks between the rounds. But at that moment Emma didn’t really care where she slept.

  


The impromptu round of competition at the kick off party had left both Mal and her daughter and Sean and Philip eliminated for uninspired food. During the the second round, a romantic dinner for a couple on their first date, Regina and Zelena again came in first. That challenge had resulted in Mulan and Arthur being knocked out for overcooking the duck. The duo had left arguing with each other to the end over who had turned the burner up so high.

 

Emma wasn’t proud of her performance yet. She and Killian had been near the middle on the first round and second place in the second round. At least they hadn’t been in the bottom, but they would need to pull out two strong showings to get through to the finals.

 

All the teams had been doing interviews for talking-head pieces and reshoots of critical moments until nearly midnight, followed by decompressing drinks after that. Since two of the remaining teams were married couples, and the other included a complicated relationship between two sisters, she had found herself naturally pairing off with Killian. At least that was what she told herself as she found herself laughing at his jokes and sharing witty observations.

 

“It hardly seems worth the trouble,” Killian had said when he opened the door to stairwell that led the back part of Granny’s and all the quaintly nostalgic rooms. “If I was assured a good night’s sleep in the near future, I might just stay awake to avoid the grogginess of competing after an hour or two’s nap.”

 

“You’re not totally wrong about that,” Emma said, lacing her fingers together and lifting her arms to stretch. She didn’t miss the way that Killian’s eyes focused on that bit of skin exposed by her rising shirt. “But it’s hard to resist the idea of shutting my eyes for a few minutes. Knowing me, I’ll probably sleep through my alarm though.” She lowered her arms and jokingly collapsed against the door, her forehead touching the cool wood.

 

“Go,” Killian said, his accent thicker with the lack of sleep. “I’ll be sure to come wake you if I don’t hear you rooting about when you should.” If she hadn’t closed her eyes for that moment, she might have noticed how he rubbed the pad of his thumb against his fingertips as if wanting to reach out and touch her.

 

“I don’t know that I trust you enough for that. I mean I barely trust my alarm clock. I meant what I said earlier. Thanks for your help today. I’m sorry that I doubted your abilities.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, Emma. Perhaps we might have a cup of coffee in the morning and discuss our game plan?”

 

She closed her eyes briefly. “Would that mean getting up earlier? Because no matter how cute you are, Killian Jones, you aren’t worth losing sleep over.” Later when she was in bed, eyes heavy and breathing controlled, she remembered calling him cute. It cost her another few minutes of sleep as she tried to recall his reaction to it. Sleep encompassed her before she ever had the chance to remember his pleased and yet shocked smile and sort of shuffle step that spoke of humility.

 

It turned out that having coffee with him didn’t require her to lose any sleep. A few moments after her alarm went off, she heard the knock on her door. He stood on the other side, freshly showered and hair damp as he ran a hand over his chin. “Just ensuring you are awake and ready to compete. We’re to gather outside the diner in a bit. I presume you’ll be there?”

 

She crossed her arms over her chest and squinted at him blearily. “I’m awake,” she said, her voice sounding slightly hoarse from the short time of disuse. “Are you…”

 

“Not a morning person, I see. No matter, Emma. I’ll get us that coffee and we can share it while we await our next assignment.”

 

Sure enough, when they joined the others and listened to a litany of rules about the next round, he slid a foam cup into her hand and moved his own cup toward hers as if to say cheers. “Can’t have you falling asleep in your mise en place.”

 

She took a sip of the warm, strong liquid, swallowing as she rolled her head back in a mocking display of supposed ecstasy over the drink. “You seem to be racking up points there, Chef. Are you trying to weasel your way into my good graces so that I’ll let you win if we’re the final two?”

 

“I’ve been accused of being devious, but I assure you that’s not the case here. I’m just trying to be a good teammate. And if caffeine makes you more alert and a better competitor, I have no issue in fetching it for you.”

 

It was not that she wasn’t grateful. She was. But she had said thank you a dozen times at least to the man who seemed half pirate and half Yoda with his sage advice and ability to understand her better than most after 24 hours of knowing each other. It made her feel both supported and inadequate in a way that made her uncomfortable. She was used to winning competitions that focused on traditional techniques and the artistry of food. This competition was a different beast with limited time and ingredients, the focus being creativity and ingenuity rather than skill and precision.

 

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered from behind the raised cup.  

  


“Doing what? Bringing you coffee? I thought we already established that I want you to be in top form. I’m not here to lose, darling.”

 

“Competing.” She noted that Zelena seemed to be gazing in their direction while pretending to listen to something her sister was saying. Tilting her head toward Killian, Emma lowered her voice further. “I know it’s about the money, but is there something more?”

 

“I suppose we all have our reasons,” he said, his eyes glinting as she leaned closer. “The money is as good as any for me. I competed before, you know, and walked out before I could be kicked off for a mess of a dish that should have been a slam dunk.”

  


She frowned. “Redemption?”

  


“Something like that. I paid a hefty price for my exit and wanted to buy back what was once mine.”

 

She didn’t get to ask him any more than that, as the instruction sheets for the next challenge were announced by August. Contestants would be left with $20 to scrounge for food on a small island about 30 minutes away. There was only one small store on the island, five homes, and otherwise only natural resources.

 

“We’ll be taking a ferry over to the island in just a few minutes. Pack up your knives. You’ll have an outdoor kitchen with equipment and basic seasonings on the island.” He smiled, cleared his throat and delivered the lines again, letting the cameras get him from another angle. “You’ll also have access to equipment for fishing or hunting. Not both.”

 

Killian gave Emma a quick glance. “Any ideas now?”

 

“Not so much,” Emma said, standing and slinging her knife bag over her shoulder. “You’re the seafood guy. Feel like fishing?”

 

***AAA***

 

The ride to the island was shorter than they had hoped, leaving very little time for strategizing after Mr. Gold reiterated the expectations that they should all interact more and show their dislike for the other teams. It was Ariel who noted loudly that he seemed to only talk about personalities and not the flavors or food. When they got there it was still early morning and there was nothing man-made to be seen in their direct vicinity other than the dock. The heat of the day was not even in full force, but the contestants were already shedding their chef jackets. Emma noticed that Killian’s fitted black t-shirt made him look more like a male model than a chef, and couldn’t miss his appreciative gaze at the gray tank clinging to her own defined curves.

 

Mary Margaret and David were the only ones who chose to hunt rather than fish, but that didn’t surprise Emma. Mary Margaret was known for her prowess with a bow and arrow and was sure to bring back some sort of protein that was unattainable to the rest. Killian admitted that he was not much use with that or a crossbow, leaving them to take the rudimentary pole, line, and hook.

 

“You want to fish while I check out the store for what it’s got?” Emma asked, cupping her hand over her eyes and squinting to see if she could spot the place they were told was close. “I am not expecting much, but I’d like to hit it before we worry about making camp.”

 

“Aye,” he said, looking over at Zelena who was going to do the fishing for the sisters. That might be worth sticking around for just to watch. “I’m not sure we have much of a list or a plan, but it’s best to be getting on with it. See if you can find some fresh vegetables for a salad.”

 

It was still early summer, so produce was not going to be at its peak. Still, Emma was hoping to find some lemon for the fish. Perhaps some of the homeowners would have rice or pasta that she might trade for or some sort of starch. Turning back toward Killian who was already carefully threading the fishing line, she frowned. “Do you think we might look for clams? It’s early in the season for them so they’d be small, but just imagine!”

 

“Brilliant! You head to that store, and I’ll see what I can do about getting some clams.”

 

Emma threw her chef jacket onto the pile of camping gear and darted ahead to try to beat some of the others. She ended up being second to arrive at the store that sold little more than jerky and fishing bait and lures. But she was able to get a pack of smoked bacon for less than $2, knowing that would highlight most any fish Killian caught.  

 

As she walked along the path toward two of the houses, she slapped at a mosquito that had been buzzing about her. The marshy area of the island was a breeding ground for these nuisances that seemed to be ready to feast on her. The first family she met was nice, but had very little in terms of fresh food. Still she managed to obtain a can of creamed corn, half a bag of rice, and two rather small onions. The second family offered her some cereal--a sugary, oddly colored mess that she couldn’t imagine using, a small bottle of wine that was the type you’d find on sale at a grocery store, and two unopened cans of beer, which they gave her in exchange for her butternut squash soup recipe.

 

Despite the last few years in New York, Emma was sure that she had never walked so much. Her sensible chef shoes were caked with muddy wet sand and had started to rub her feet raw. Hair was escaping her expertly braid and her skin was pink from the sun and numerous slaps trying to kill the mosquitos. Worst of all, she was limping from a tumble over an exposed root.

 

“Catch anything?” she asked when she stumbled back to the shore, dropping down to the sand with her finds beside her.

 

“In the cooler there.” Next to him was a blue cooler on wheels with their names written on neon green tape. She peeked in to find ice and two blue fish. It was a disappointing haul, as blue fish tended to be on the oily side and trashy. She added the bacon and covered it all back again.

 

“Blue fish?”

 

“Aye, we’d have better luck if we were on a boat, but blue fish it is. Cut out the bloodline and it should be tasty. I was thinking we might make a taco if we had…”

 

“I’m afraid I didn’t get much for tacos.” She showed him the assorted items. “I was thinking maybe soup with the clams. A nice broth and steamed clams is always a good choice. And we could beer-batter the blue fish. That might be good.” Sliding her shoes off, she rubbed her feet. “There’s three more houses so we might get lucky for some other sides. I just needed a moment to rest.”

 

He shifted his weight and watched as his lure bobbed out ahead on the water. “Perhaps we should switch. I can go to the other three and you could see to the fishing. I’ll take the shore route so I can look for clams while I’m at it.”

  


“I’ll stay.” Looking over at some of their competitors, she could see that Eric had nearly filled the cooler with different fish and was well on his way to setting a record. Zelena’s container was empty, but she seemed unfazed by the lack of protein.

  


He bent down and helped her put some of the ice on her already swelling foot. “You’re sure you’re alright? We don’t need to call the medic team, do we?” The tips of his fingers lingered at the ends of the makeshift ice pack. “I could carry you back to the ferry.”

 

She refused his offer by rolling her eyes. And by the time he returned she had more than doubled their stock of blue fish by catching three more and adding two stripers while she was at it.

 

“You’re lucky,” Zelena had told her, with a knowing  smile. “Killian’s not bad to look at in the least.” Like they had assumed, Zelena wasn’t the most adept at catching fish and had fallen face first into the sand. Yet, she had come out of the faceplant looking alluring and camera ready. Her tank top was tied just under her breasts and her damp hair was curling in a way that most women paid good money to recreate.

 

Emma wanted to ignore the woman who was clearly trying to get into her head with talk like that. Instead she concentrated on pulling in her line and casting it again. So what if Zelena was right? He wasn’t bad to look at. He was a good cook. He seemed like a good guy. That was the problem, she thought as the water rippled in front of her. She didn’t get nice guys. She got guys who wanted quick flings. She attracted guys who had wives and wanted to keep their trysts a secret. She got liars and scoundrels. She never got the nice guy. And she had made her peace with it.

 

“I found a few things,” Killian said, dumping the sack. “And…” he pulled out the other smaller sack from the loop of his belt. About 20 clams. It’ll be a feast.”

 

She limped over to where he was standing, ignoring the blatantly concerned look on his rugged face. “Good job,” she said, offering uncharacteristic praise. Wrinkling her nose, she pointed at some items in the sack. “Green tomatoes? Those aren’t tomatillos. What were you thinking?”

 

“It’s too early in the season for ripe ones. But I once knew a southern chef who taught me how to make a fantastic fried green tomato. I also thought about pickling them in some vinegar for a nice relish to go atop our beer battered blue fish.” He began to collect their ingredients. “We should go make camp, love, and get our kitchen in order. Can you walk?”

 

“I’ve got this,” she said, throwing one of the bags of food over her shoulder. She nearly lost her balance, but by throwing her hands up like a gymnast on an apparatus, she returned to normal. The concern in his expression was both comforting and disconcerting as she slapped his pack against his chest. “Let’s go, Chef.”

 

It didn’t take long to get to the camping area. Concerned about her ankle, Killian volunteered to set up the tent after getting the fire going. This allowed Emma to cut and prep the food. It didn’t get past Emma that he was instilling a lot of trust in her, as she fileted the fish instead of him. He didn’t even mention that her cuts, while good, were not at the same angle that he would have done and probably left too much yield on the bone. She appreciated that.

 

“It’s been a while since I cooked outside,” she said, mixing the marinade for the blue fish by hand since there was no electricity for the equipment she normally used for the purpose.

  


“Girl Scout camp?” he queried, looking at her curiously.

  


“Hardly. I was a foster kid so organized events that people paid good money to do were out of the question. I’ve done this with some friends over the years though and always remember how much I love it.”

 

“Aye, it’s something I always say I should do more of, but time and circumstances rarely allow for it.” He poked at the fire to stir it up a bit and peered over the lip of the pot where the clams were soaking in the broth of cornmeal, creamed corn, white wine, a little butter and a few dried herbs. “Good choice to go ahead and start our clams, love. I rather like the idea of letting the soup simmer overnight to build flavor.”

 

She smiled at his compliment, covering the fish in the bowl with the beer based marinade. He had managed to find a package of tortillas. While they wouldn’t be as good as homemade, they would do well for a soft fish taco.

 

The only thing missing was dessert, but the selections had been low. So far their one idea was to grill the two bananas they had gotten from one of the homes to make what would resemble sauteed plantains.

 

“It was a good find,” he said, plopping down next to her. His forearms rested on his bent legs. “Let me see your ankle.”

 

She frowned, closing the lid to the cooler. “It’s fine, Killian. I promise.”

 

“Aye, no doubt that you will deny it hurts until it bloody well falls off. But despite your protests that you are fine, as you say, and refusals to utilize the medic, I have concerns. I can see from here that the swelling is still present.” He extended his right hand and wiggled his fingers in her direction to encourage her. “I promise to be gentle.”

 

Frowning, she straightened her leg and extended it in his direction. Even through the soft denim of her pants, she could feel his fingers gently running down the long limb probably more than he had to in order to inspect the injury to her ankle. She didn’t protest though, even minimizing her breathing to near stillness as he pushed up on the end of her jeans. “See, it’s fine.”

 

“It’s still swollen and a bit warm to the touch. We should get you one of our packs to use for elevating it. Can’t do to have you limping about tomorrow when we must be at our best.” He quickly doctored up a way for her to elevate her ankle and keep it cool with ice.

 

Quirking an eyebrow at her as she reached down to adjust the ice over her injury, he smiled. “I suppose I should volunteer to wait on you hand and foot as it were. We have a few things leftover that we won’t be using tomorrow. Might I offer you something to eat or drink?”

 

She fell back onto her elbows, craning her neck to look at the sky through the canopy of trees overhead. “It feels weird to have a campfire and no s’mores. But if we had chocolate and marshmallows, we would have a good dessert option.”

 

“Perhaps next time.”

 

Her head fell to one side and she caught his gaze. “You assume there will be a next time for us to camp. I’m kind of hoping the rest of the competition will be indoors.”

 

He didn’t clarify what he meant. Instead, he stood up and foraged through the odd assemblage of ingredients they weren’t using. Stooping over the cooler, he frowned at the addition of the two fish she had not mentioned. “You got stripers?”

 

“Not enough for the competition,” she admitted, “but yeah. What do you say to using them for dinner?”

 

“I’d say my assessment about you being brilliant is correct.” He lifted the two fish up and waggled his eyebrows. “A feast for two it is. And I say we crack open that second beer. No sense letting it go to waste.”

 

Later she was holding the paper plate with the rather meager but well cooked dinner on her lap. “I’m not too much of a foodie to enjoy beer out of a can.” Reaching over, she plucked it from his hand and popped the cap. She took a long gulp of the cold and bitter beverage. “Reminds me of college.”

 

Chuckling, he took his own sip and settled next to her again. “I think I’d have liked to have seen that. You in your younger days, carefree, and a bit wild. It must have been a sight.”

 

She broke a bit of the flakey fish off with her fork. “I don’t think I was ever carefree. But I did have friends and enjoyed the occasional party.”

 

He had yet to bite into the food, his eyes studying her slightly sunburned face. “I would say that it is a shame that you didn’t experience that state of being carefree, but I doubt you would accept the condolences. I’m sure that your beginnings made you into who you are today.”

 

“And have you figured that out yet?” she asked.

 

“As I told you, you’re an open book in many ways,” he finally took a bite of the fish, his eyes closing briefly to assess the taste and texture of his own work. Opening them again, he met her green and curious eyes. “But I would never tell a lass that I have her all figured out. You do continually surprise me.”

 

“In a good way?” she asked before closing her mouth around the fork again.

 

“The best,” he confirmed. “I know we are only paired for a short time, but I feel like you have challenged me at each step. That’s an impressive feat for a New York City chef competing in Maine.”

 

“And that’s what you’ve figured out, that I’m a New York City chef?”

 

“Aye, that and that you love garlic and cinnamon, though not together. You worry more over what your diners are thinking of your food than the classical flavors and techniques we learned in classes. There’s something about perfect knife cuts that makes you smile. I think you probably prefer gelato to ice cream. And while you are clearly a savory chef, you have a sweet tooth.”

 

The tenderness in his tone and expression amazed her as she waited for the sarcastic punch to hit. It didn’t. “You might be right,” she answered so softly that he barely heard it.

 

“I know that you enjoy your work as an executive chef, but you have dreams that are bigger than that. Perhaps that’s the wrong word though. I think you probably have simpler dreams that involve cooking your own food in your own restaurant.” He brushed a bit of sand off his leg.

 

“Don’t all chefs want that? And you think you have me figured out by watching me cook?”

 

“By watching you in general,” he clarified, bowing his head and murmuring the words. “You are quite guarded, but there are moments, just a few, when you let the real you out to the world.”

 

His face was so close to hers in that moment that she barely had to lift her head to press her lips to his. If he was shocked, he did not reveal it except by a slight gasp. Slow and thoughtful, his lips moved against hers with gentle firmness. A moment later he pulled back a fraction of an inch, the blue of his eyes dark in the dim light of the fire. An errant curl that had escaped her messy braid was between his fingers as he studied her.

 

“Don’t,” she said, reaching up and cupping his cheek in her hand. “Don’t apologize or make an excuse. Please.”

 

“I wasn’t intending to,” he said, leaning his cheek further into her palm. “Perhaps you might be willing to share a bit more about your beginnings. I would be honored to know you better.”

She yawned and watched the wispy gray strands of smoke rise from the fire and disappear into the night sky. “Not much to tell. I changed home every few months and learned to travel light.”

  


“Never a home that stuck?”

  


“Well, there was one when I was about 14. A woman named Ingrid. She had a few of us she watched over. And one by one they were either reunited with their parents or found adoptive parents. I didn’t.” She was quiet for a moment, waiting for him to encourage her perhaps. While he said nothing, his eyes studied her in that attentive way he had. “Soon it was just me. She tried to adopt me, but it didn’t go through or maybe she changed her mind. I moved on to another group home and didn’t know why. It hurt. Not knowing why the one person who seemed to want me left me too. God, I should be over this. I am a grown adult now.”

  


“I don’t know if we ever get over not being wanted,” he answered. His arm rested on her shoulders and his hand dangled until she caught it with her own, locking their fingers together. “Wounds are made when we’re young tend to linger.”

  


“Sounds as though you have a few of those wounds too?”

  


“Nobody makes it through their youth unscathed. Some are just luckier than others, I suppose.” His thumb trailed over the fleshy part of her hand.

  


She tilted her head to better look at him. “Tell me?”

  


He gave her a short version of the loss of his mother, betrayal of a father, and loss of a brother who he had adored. There was talk of the boat that he had always wanted and the loss of it.

  


“You mean that Gold was the producer on that show? He sued you and you chose to come back again?”

  


“I’m not proud of that performance, love. He doesn’t seem that concerned though.”

  


Her brow creased thoughtfully. “No, he doesn’t seem concerned about much other than the drama of the competition. So if you win, you’ll buy back your boat?”

  


“That’s the plan. What about you? Some posh and proper bistro in New York?”

  


“Actually, I’m looking at a place here in Maine,” she admitted, her head hitting his shoulder as she told him of Ingrid leaving her a tall Victorian house that was way too big for her to live in and screamed out as perfect for a seaside restaurant. Her voice sounded dreamy as they discussed menus and sustainable fishing that would make the place her dream. Her eyes closed as she imagined simple elegance and clean flavors.

  


“As enjoyable as this moment is, love, I was just thinking that perhaps we should be considering sleep. We got precious little last night, and tomorrow…”

 

“You really shouldn’t be so practical,” she said, throwing back her head with a moan of frustration. “Because now I am going to think about how much I want to sleep.”

 

Laughter from Mary Margaret and David’s camp filled the circle of campers, while the lights of the camera crew at Regina and Zelena’s site drove away some of the feeling of purity from the experience of camping. “I don’t regret it, Emma. I just would rather kiss you without the fear that your sleep addled brain wasn’t wondering who I was or about my intentions.”

 

“I know who you are, Killian. You’re not the only one who has been paying attention.”

 

***AAA***

 

Mr. Gold and the judges arrived around 10 a.m. the next morning, though filming had been going on for a while. None of the teams were particularly chatty with each other as they put the finishing touches on their plates. With Emma’s limp less pronounced and the swelling going down, she was hurrying about as if there wasn’t a problem. Stirring the freshly chopped onion into the green tomato salsa, she didn’t see  it when it happened, but she certainly heard it.

 

When she looked up, she saw Killian take about five steps back from the fire with his left hand cradled in his right. She dropped the spoon into the mixing bowl and hurried over to him. “Are you alright?”

 

His eyes were narrow and glassy as he stared at his hand as if it had commented some sort of offensive treachery. The towel that he normally wore over his shoulder or at his waist was haphazardly covering his hand, but Emma could already see the red splotches of blood coming through the thin fabric.

 

“Killian, look at me,” she said, steering him away from the fire. “Come on. I’ve got you.”

 

It was David who alerted the medic to the problem and Ariel who flagged down one of the production assistants. Emma didn’t move from his side until he reminded her of their task. “Get the fish. It’ll burn if we leave it too long.”

  


“You can’t possibly be thinking about food right now,” she hissed.

  


“Aye, and you are too. Go win this thing, Emma. I’ll be fine.”

 

Squeezing her hand on his thigh, she put on a new set of cooking gloves and checked the fish that was close to overdone at that point. His knife was on the ground, as was the lime that didn’t look quite ripe enough. She pulled the fish, and using her own knife, rough chopped the blue fish for the tacos. Her eyes and focus were on Killian, who looked to be in pain as the medic spoke to him and the production assistant in hushed tones.

 

Skirting around the cameraman who was capturing her own nervous reaction on tape, she grabbed for the box of salt and seasoned the clams heartily before going back to throw the premade tortillas on the grate of their makeshift grill. Killian had spoken earlier about the importance of heating them just before the judging, which would a smoky flavor. The bacon would create that as well, she thought. So with her stealthy glance still on Killian, she threw the bacon slices onto the grill grate and heated them. Once they were crispy enough, she broke them into smaller pieces and combined them in the salsa. There was still quite a bit left over and so as a last minute addition, she threw the rest of crumbled bacon into the broth.

 

“Chef Swan,” Mr. Gold said, his cane digging into the sandy earth. “I know you must be frantic what with your partner’s injury, but if you would be a dear.”

 

“What do you want?” Emma asked distractedly.

 

His sickening sweet smile grew wider as he watched her push back her hair with her forearm. “Dearie, you know we are filming a television show here. It’s important that we have these details, you know.”

 

“Look, I’ve got seven minutes left and a lot of plating to do. Can we just get on with it?”

 

“Of course. I just hoped we might shoot some B-roll of you doing a few things around the fire. Stirring your food? Adding some herbs or spices? You’ve got a box of salt there. Why don’t you pretend to put some in while we film?”

 

The exhale of her breath sent the errant hairs around her face flying as she grabbed the salt and poured some into her hand. “Can you do that again, a little slower this time?” Gold asked.

 

She said nothing, adding more to the heaping mound. Her head turned to get a better view of what they were doing to Killian as two EMTs were rushed in from the direction of the docks. Her stomach dropped and her hand shook as she felt the salt overflow from her cupped hand. She jerked it back and dropped the rest of the mound down to the sand. “Excuse me,” she told the producer and cameraman, pushing past them to hurry over to Killian.

 

“What’s going on?” she asked, staring down at his wrist and hand now covered in bandages.

 

“They want to get an x-ray of it, but I may have sliced my tendon,” Killian said, his jaw tight and his eyes flashing with anger. “I’m a bloody klutz to have used the knife so carelessly.”

 

“Oh God,” Emma said, yanking her glove off to touch him. “Are you in pain? What am I asking? Of course, you’re in pain. I’m going with you to the hospital. I want…”

 

“Emma, the competition…you need to be here for the judges. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back for the next round. We’ve both got plans for that money.”

 

Only, he wasn’t back for the next round and neither was Emma. While he was being taken to the hospital, Emma had stood alone at the table where she served the residents of the island and the judges the fish tacos, rice, and clams in the white wine broth. She had run out of time to make the dessert, but nobody could really blame her when she was working alone on a two person task. No, the complaints weren’t about the lack of sweetness. They were instead about the saltiness of the clams in their broth. She had seasoned them too much and the added bacon had made the dish so salty that it was inedible to most of the people there.

 

With her head lowered and bile rising in her stomach, she heard the news announced that she and Killian were eliminated from the competition.

 

***AAA***

 

“So I called that contractor about redoing the floor at Ingrid’s,” Ruby said two months later as she breezed into the kitchen of the restaurant where Emma was working. “He said he could do them next week. Great, right?” Steam from the pots and pans on the stove rose high and the clatter of plates from the wait staff echoed in the room.

 

Emma slid the pan into the oven and closed it with a resounding slam. Lifting her knife, she returned to the vegetables on the cutting board and began to chop. “Excuse me, but did we somehow come into money that I’m not aware of or something? Because last time I looked at my bank account, I was not seeing it. After I oversalted my last dish on the show, I am lucky my boss didn’t fire me.”

 

Ruby plucked one of the berries out of the dish waiting to be cut and popped it into her mouth. “So you’ll get a loan. It’s the American way.”

 

“Seriously?” Emma asked, her knife rocking against the bamboo board. “Ruby, you know this business better than I do. I can’t just go get a loan to redo a house as a restaurant. I’d need equipment, staff, food, insurance…I can’t do it. I’m going to be cooking someone else’s vision for the rest of my life.”

 

“Pity party, table for one,” Ruby chided, leaning her elbows onto the cold surface of the prep table. “Look, you did well on that show. I’ve been watching the raw tape. Investors are already impressed..”

 

“I oversalted the food, nearly burned the fish, and…”

 

“And they still had a hard time deciding whether or not to send you and Killian home. By the way, he’s doing better. Granny’s got him back in the kitchen on the days he isn’t doing physical therapy for his hand.”

 

Her non-response included spinning around to add some freshly chopped peppers to the simmering pot on the stove. Other than the tense rise of her shoulders and the shallowness of her breath, Emma’s reaction to hearing his name would have gone unnoticed by someone who wasn’t her best friend.

 

“When I went to visit her for her birthday, he asked about you, you know? Wanted to know how you were doing.”

 

“And I’m sure you told him,” Emma answered sourly. “Ruby, I screwed it up for us. He trusted me and I screwed it up. He needed that money too.” Her eyes dropped as she remembered the wistful way he had spoken about his boat and the idea of sailing along the shore with no real destination in mind. Truthfully, the thought appealed to her too.

 

“And that happens sometimes. It was a competition, Emma. You either win or lose. It’s not like you don’t get other chances. There’s another show that is casting right now. I could make calls. But I think we need to look at this one a little bit closer. And maybe explain why you didn’t even go to the hospital to see him when he got injured. I know you’re a great winner, Emma, but I thought you had it in you to be gracious in losing too.”

  


“You know why I didn’t go,” Emma said, her voice trembling. “I let him down and couldn’t face him. It was easier to just go back to what I know best and move on. I’m too much of a broken mess to even deal with screwing up like that.” It had just been a kiss, she told herself, ignoring that they had talked late into the night and she had slept with her head on his chest as he watched the fire that night. It was easier to say it meant nothing. Who would go traipsing after a guy in another state after a single kiss?

 

“I think he has a thing for broken messes. I don’t know if you saw it, but his eyes light up when he says your name.” Ruby’s smile grew. “It’s not even something he can hide.”

 

“What? With anger?” Emma tried to joke. It fell flat.

 

“No, I wouldn’t call it that.” Ruby dug into the designer knock off bag she carried and pulled out a DVD. “This is the raw cut of the show. Would you do me a favor and watch it? Just watch it? Even if you don’t enjoy seeing his obvious interest in you, you’ll appreciate the take down of Regina and Zelena for cheating. The look on Gold’s face when he realized his own interference was going to cost them is priceless.”

 

“I don’t have time for television shows,” Emma said, drowning out Ruby’s response with the blender. When she finished making the sauce, her friend was gone and the disc sat catching the light on the counter. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to watch.

 

***AAA***

 

“You could call her,” Robin suggested, passing a plate to one of the servers at Granny’s. “If you don’t know her number, you at least know where she works.”

 

“Are you suggesting I show up there and stalk her?” Killian asked as he slid another pancake onto the plate and doused the stack with syrup. “Hi, I’m the now one-handed git who works one step above fast food and kissed you that one time. Fancy a drink?”

 

“Don’t be dramatic. You have two hands.” Robin shrugged, having heard his friend’s pitiful excuses before. “And no, I was thinking more along the lines of calling her there. But if you think showing up would work better, I vote for that. Take some time off. You got that insurance settlement that is going to make a hefty downpayment on that 30-foot Catalina sailboat and your appearance fee for the show.. So why not a trip to New York?”

 

“No thanks, mate. Rejection is not something I would like to relive.”

 

“Have you always been this stubborn?”

 

“It’s one of my more lovable traits, mate. That and my ability to cheat at any game of poker. Speaking of which, are you hosting this week or is it John?” Killian flexed and stretched his left hand carefully as the doctors had instructed. The surgery to reattach the tendon was arduous and the recovery tough. But he was trying to do his exercises nightly and had spent hours in therapy to better use the injured appendage.

 

“You care for her. And from the footage the Widow Lucas’s granddaughter showed me, the woman seemed to fancy you too. I don’t know why she didn’t visit your lousy arse in the hospital. But I do suspect that a call from you wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

 

The ding of the bell from one of the servers indicated another order being placed. Killian reached for it and nearly faltered as his hand cramped up. Tearing it down on his second try, he grimaced. “Not now.”

 

***AAA***

 

Emma spooned some of the whipped cream onto the steaming mug of hot chocolate and watched as globs of it melted away. With a sprinkle of cinnamon on top, she curled her hands around the too hot mug and padded on sock covered feet into the living room.

 

Normally Ruby didn’t wait up for her unless she wanted something, but she had yet to say a single word as she sat curled up on the loveseat reading a bodice ripping romance and munching on cheese doodles. Dipping a finger into the whipped cream and licking it, Emma watched her friend expectantly. Ruby simply turned the page in her novel and chewed louder on the cheddar flavored snack.

 

“Fine,” Emma said, curling her legs under her and reaching for the remote. “I’ll watch the damn footage. Happy?”

 

Ruby said nothing and simply dragged a cheesy finger across the page in her demonstration of concentrated reading.

 

The large screen filled with scenes of the short time they were in the competition, Emma recognizing the efforts the contestants made. What she hadn’t noticed at the time was becoming increasingly clear on the video evidence. Killian’s eyes often lingered on hers and his smiles became brighter each time she spoke to him or showed any attention in his direction. When she smarted off at one of the judges, he was practically beaming with pride. Her own reaction wasn’t exactly subtle either.

 

“The interviews are even better,” Ruby said, finally dropping her book and pretense.

 

Ruby was right. Killian spoke of food with great respect and passion, but he was speaking of her with nearly equal reverence. His face flushed and his words stuttered when someone off camera asked if there was something going on between them.

 

“This isn’t making me feel better,” Emma complained, sipping down more of the chocolate drink. “Why am I even watching this? So what if he was interested in me? I clearly ruined it by getting us kicked off the show and then being too chicken to even show up to see him at the hospital.”

 

“Right,” Ruby said, digging her hand into the bag and pulling out another crisp puff. “I mean nothing to see here. Move on.”

 

Emma frowned at the screen as Regina and Zelena waxed philosophical about their differences of opinions and similar palates. Then the footage of Killian’s injury filled the screen, followed by her mistake, and then the announcement that she lost. Her finger hovered over the stop button on the remote when Ruby told her to wait. “For what?”

 

The image of Killian in his hospital bed filled the screen and Emma let her finger continue to hover. “It was my fault,” Killian told the camera, his expression somber and his face pale against the starched sheets of his bed. “I had already salted the broth and didn’t tell her. She didn’t know.”

 

“But he didn’t salt it,” Emma protested to the television. “I know. He wasn’t near the pot of broth. He was trying to cut that lime and…”

 

Ruby reached over and pulled the remote from her friend’s hand. “Pretty dramatic statement, right? He was trying to take the blame for your mistake.”

 

“That’s just…”

 

“Romantic?”

 

Emma rolled her eyes. “I was going with stupid.”

  


“Right,” Ruby said, nodding thoughtfully. “Stupidly romantic then.”

 

Ruby made her watch the rest: the stunning disqualification of Regina and Zelena in the penultimate round for cheating, followed by a black screen with white typography stating that Mr. Gold had been removed from the production for his part in sneaking the women ingredients, tools, and recipes in some sort of deal for them to win and become the faces of his brand of frozen dinners, and the thrilling showdown between the married couples resulting in a close victory for David and Mary Margaret. Between the winning pair, it was Mary Margaret who won the whole thing though you couldn’t tell by the exuberant celebration. As Ruby turned off the television, Emma sank back against the cushions of her couch. “I can’t believe he did that. He could have let me take the blame; it’s my fault. I don’t get it. Why did he do that?”

 

Exasperated, Ruby threw the blanket covering her legs off and stood up from the love seat. “Ask him, Emma. Freaking ask him. I gassed up your car. I packed you an overnight bag. I called your boss and traded in some of that vacation time you’ve been hoarding. I was trying to trick you into going to Maine with me to see about your plans for the restaurant at Ingrid’s old house. I even lined up some investor appointments so you can do this the real way instead of the competition show way. But I’m going for the emotional appeal. Now get your ass in gear, put some hot chocolate in a thermos, and go ask him yourself.”

 

“Ruby…”

 

Her exasperated friend was jangling the car keys in front of her. “You can yell at me in the car. Let’s go. We’ll talk about the restaurant on the way.”

 

***AAA***

 

Granny’s most frequent customer had sent the meatloaf back twice, claiming it was bland. Killian was ready to kill him. A scent of burnt grease permeated the air as he directed the two line cooks to prepare the easier dishes between shouted replies from the restaurant’s proprietor.

 

Sashaying into the kitchen, Granny lifted the lid on the rosemary laced tomato sauce and breathed in the scent before turning her attention toward Killian. “Take a break would you? You’re clearly not on your game today.”

 

He dropped his mouth open to speak, but shut it in recognition that she was right. “I’m just going to take a walk.”

 

The older woman’s glasses swung from around her neck as she leaned over to inspect another pot simmering away. “Go on with you,” she said cheerily. “Be back in a bit?”

 

“Sure,” he said, wadding up his apron and pushing through the back door. He knew better than to say he was getting fresh air when all he could smell was the stench of the dumpsters. He rounded the building and was about to head east toward the docks when he saw what appeared to be the familiar blonde head of his television partner. It couldn’t be, he thought bitterly. Why would she be in Maine?

 

He was already at the docks by the time Granny quit hugging Emma and telling her to stop being a stranger. And he had bought a pound of fresh scallops for a dish he wanted to try by the time Granny had lectured Emma about her lack of confidence in taking chances. He was a block away when Emma ordered her favorite grilled cheese and Granny told her that she was short-handed, so cook it herself.

 

He caught sight of her standing at the grill before she even turned around. “Best keep your eye on it, or it will burn,” he said, not sure what else he could say in that moment that wouldn’t be clichéd or heavy handed.

 

She turned her head slightly to confirm his presence and then shifted her eyes back to the sandwich. “You think I don’t know how to cook something as simple as grilled cheese? I thought I was an open book.” She lifted the edge of the sandwich and studied it. “I guess not a cookbook though, right?”

 

“I think you traveled an awfully long way to eat a burnt sandwich.”

 

With a flick of her wrist the flame beneath the pan disappeared and she slid her sandwich onto the plate. It was then that he noticed she had made two. “I didn’t travel all this way just to make a sandwich I could easily do at home.”

 

He nodded, gesturing to the two prep cooks to take their breaks. He knew Granny wouldn’t mind. She might even understand.

  


Lifting the two plates high, she carried them over to the prep table in the middle of the room and gestured for him to join her. Along with the sandwiches, there were onion rings and a simple dipping sauce she had mixed just before he arrived.

  


“Why did you come here?” he asked as he took a seat on a stool that wobbled. “I didn’t really expect that you would show up here. I assumed you would rather forget our awful encounter.”

 

“This is where I could explain that I’m still going to open my restaurant here. But that’s not the reason right now. Or I could tell you how Ruby forced me. But I’m not big on following directions other than a recipe. So the shortest answer is to ask you why. Why did you try to save me when you didn’t do anything wrong? Why did  you risk your reputation?” Her voice faded into a hushed stillness that seemed unnatural for a restaurant kitchen.

 

“And you think I have the answers?” He licked his lips nervously. “I hate to shatter the illusion, love, but I don’t. When I heard what the judges said, I felt responsible. I had distracted you. You would not normally make such an error, so I tried to take a bit of the burden from you. Even if it wouldn’t get us back in the competition on a technicality, I didn’t want you to lose your dream of opening that restaurant. And with the way Gold seemed to be playing it, investors were going to be hard to convince to fund you.”

 

“You traded your chance at getting your ship back for me?”

  


“Aye.” He met her gaze with an unwavering focus.

  


She nodded slightly and gave a nervous laugh. “Besides, you made that amazing striper for me. I thought I owed you.”

 

“Grilled cheese in exchange for striper cooked over a fire?” he asked, straddling the stool across from her. “I do hope it’s the best grilled cheese ever.”

 

She broken off a bit of the sandwich and popped it in her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “So yeah, it’s the best thing I make. It’s the first thing I ever made actually. When I watched the bread brown and the cheese melt, it felt like I was performing magic.” She leaned back, suppressing a sigh. “And given how I screwed up whatever was going on between us, I could use a little magic right now.”

 

He bit into his with his dimples deepening. “I’m impressed. You make a hell of a grilled cheese and you shared a bit about your beginnings. And for the record, you didn’t screw anything up.”

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the hospital,” she blurted out. “I didn’t think you would want to see me. I didn’t think you would want me…”

 

“I must have done a piss poor job of showing you my intentions if you could think I didn’t want you, Emma. And you owe me no apology. I was there out of my own carelessness and to the detriment of our team. You must think me a complete…”

 

“I think of you,” she interrupted. “And not in a bad way. Look, I know we didn’t get to know each other that much. And I know we only kissed once, but I…I want to know you too Killian.”

 

“And I you.”

 

“So any suggestions on how we do this? I’ll admit that I’m not sure of the steps here. I’ll probably screw it up.”

 

Standing up and circling the rectangular table, he grinned as he pulled her up to stand. “I’m sure there is a recipe, love. Or we might make it up as we go along?”

 

She tilted her head back to look up at him, matching his happy grin. “I think I can do that. Sometimes the best recipes are the ones you make up as you go along.”

 

His lips covered hers hungrily, devouring the softness. Arms around him, she melted into his embrace. And in that moment, their hearts like ingredients joined to make the perfect combination.  


End file.
